“Well, she’s about to be my grandmother-in-law,” I say, “That’s two weeks away, if we don’t push the wedding up so she can be…”
The woman’s fat lips form the shape of an O. “Wait, you’re engaged to Austin Rivers?”
I lift my left hand, exposing the princess cut diamond I picked out myself a month before Austin proposed. “Yes.”
“Even better! When is he back?”
I frown, wondering if Sally is related to Bess. Why do you need to know? It’s clear to me she has no interest in either my wedding or Maggie’s health. Still, I need her off Maggie’s porch so I can bring her socks and a bathrobe. “Eight days. I really need to know what I can help you with. Otherwise, I need to go.”
“Eight days. This will be fine then. Court’s in ten. Make sure he’s there.”
My heart drops. “Make sure Austin’s in court? Why?”
Sally motions to the car. I follow the straight line from her finger to the backseat, catching a glimpse of blond hair and a chubby hand on the window. “Tristan, of course.”
“Tristan? I’m so confused. Who is Tristan?”
“Austin’s son,” she frowns, shaking her head at me like she’s disgusted that I’ve even asked. That, or that she thinks I’m totally just dumb. “Hannah was put in custody last night and I don’t see her out before court. The bond’s pretty high. Maggie’s the only kin listed. With the paperwork…”
I can’t keep track of Sally’s words. I crane my neck to get a better view of the kid in the back of her Sentra. “Austin doesn’t have a son. There’s been a mistake. We’ve been together forever. We’ve known each other since we were kids. He’s never even slept with anyone else! …I’m sorry. You’re going to have to leave now. I need to go see Maggie.”
Sally bends down, adjusting her pants, and holding her lower back as she rifles through her briefcase. She shoves more paperwork at me. “No. No mistake. Sounds like you ought to have a talk with your man, doll. Can’t make milk out of a sow’s ear. Best think about that now.”
Twenty Minutes Later
I sit on Maggie’s couch, staring at a little boy dressed in dungarees and a blue tee-shirt. I squint, trying to determine if he has Austin’s wide-set eyes. Certainly not the color, I decide, convinced there has to be a mistake. And then, it happens: He smiles. Every hope I had of some kind of mix-up vanishes somewhere in the runny-nosed kid’s dimples.
I call Austin.
No answer.
I don’t leave a message.
I don’t know what I would have said if he had answered.
Right now, more than anything, answers are what I need. I grab the folder Sally left with me, hoping Tristan will give me time to skim through it. What the hell am I going to do with a kid? Why is this my problem? And how does he even exist? How could Austin cheat on me? I’m going to kill him.
According to the paperwork, Tristan is almost three years old. He likes playing with trucks, is fully potty-trained, takes a nap at 11 a.m. every day, and is a “good eater.” He was born at a healthy eight pounds, seven ounces. Big first baby! Yikes. He was born “developmentally normal with no physical signs of substance abuse” and has met all age milestones. He’s 82nd percentile in height and 79th in weight.
A fat document labeled “social study” says his momma, Hannah, has been incarcerated for some sort of drug distribution. How is that even possible? Austin would never hang out with a girl like that. That’s proof that there’s been a mistake!
A mistake. Idiot social workers. God, I need Grandma. Grandma would know what to do. She always said the system was flawed and that’s why she was always worried about Momma coming back to take us. I search every crevice of my brain to recognize her name—Hannah. Hannah. Hannah. Hannah. No. I come up blank. I try to think of the terminology Sally O’Mason, the grouchy woman from the state, used. The word is one that allows Tristan to be here. Finally, it comes: Relative placement.
Still, nothing clicks. Nothing makes sense. For a moment, I’m tempted to track Sally down. I know she planned to stop at the Donavan’s—two streets down. She’d even asked me for directions, calling Happy Endings a “busy place” to live. Judgmental witch.
I think better of it, all because of the dimples. Tristan seems to know, by osmosis or something, that I have no clue what I’m doing. He keeps smiling at me, taking turns between picking his nose and wiping boogers on his shirt. I look away. Then, smiling again, he catches my attention with a sudden movement like it’s funny I’m not stopping him. Go. Away. Kid.
I reach for the clicker and flip through channels on Magge’s ancient box-style TV. Finally, I settle on a cartoon aimed for an audience way over the little boy’s head. When he sits, cross-legged, in front of the television I decide not to fix what isn’t broken. It’s not like he can understand the words.
I try to think of every three-year-old I’ve ever known, purposely not allowing my mind to go to the bigger question: How did this kid even happen? In my mental rolodex, I can come up with only a few kids I babysat back in Raleigh as a high school teenager. I really have no experience with kids Tristan’s size. Well, you thought about being a pediatric nurse. And, you like kids. Austin will be home soon and you can get to the bottom of this. It’s just a few days.
I thumb through the bag the smelly social worker left me. In it are three outfits, a baseball hat, a teddy bear, two trucks, and underwear that looks and feels like diapers. I look at them, swearing I read the words “potty-trained” and wonder if he has normal-kid underwear. Superman? Batman? Anything? What am I supposed to do with these?
Then, it strikes me. More important than how I’m going to keep him dry is how I’m going to keep him alive. I race out to Maggie’s front porch, totally forgetting I probably shouldn’t leave a three-year-old unsupervised. My heart sinks as I look to the left, toward Kiki’s house. She’s already on her deck, topless and sunbathing. No car seat.
Just as I’m about to cry, I see a gray car seat with Nascar racing stripes propped at the bottom of Maggie’s steps. Thankfully, Sally had left it for him, as promised. I run toward it, wondering if they are one-size-fits-all and if it will fit in Julie’s car. I need to know what the hell I’m supposed to feed a three-year-old. Maggie will know.
I’m halfway to the hospital, trying to keep myself distracted with the radio. I look over at Tristan, in the front passengers’ seat, strapped neatly in his car seat. He’s sleeping. In sleep, he doesn’t seem as complicated. In fact, he looks like an angel. And, there’s no denying it. Mistake or not, I see Austin all over him. But how?
An irrational desire to wake the kid up comes over me. I want to pull over on the side of the road, like Pappy used to when John and I fought in the car, and demand answers. I want to ask him where he comes from and how he got here. I want to ask him what kind of slut he has for a momma and how she could possibly have seduced Austin. I want to scream at him—an innocent, seemingly easy-going—three-year-old that he has no right to do this to me, to us, to the life we planned together.
It’s not his fault. He didn’t do this. He’s just a baby. I pull over on the side of the road and cry for the first time since Grandma died. I know I can’t really go to Maggie with this. She’s too sick. John and Sonya are too far away. I couldn’t reach Austin if I wanted to—I probably don’t want to—and Julie is at work again. I can’t bother her. It’s enough that she’s let me borrow her car. I’m supposed to be focused on wedding prep. And working on my somethings new and somethings blue. I hate this!